A Spy and an Assassin walk into a bar
by VJ Riddle
Summary: This had been going on for twelve years. They had been exchanging news from opposite sides of the fence for fifteen. Finally, the mission they both knew would come. Either way, this strange dalliance of theirs would be over after Cornwall. Yassen/Ian Slash.


**Disclaimer:** Err… isn't writing on this website like an automatic disclaimer? Should be.

Yassen was sitting at a café in London, drinking his tea while he looked over the newspaper. In the reflection of the parked cars' windows he could see his target's brownstone. He had been planning on visiting anyway, as being called to London at the same time the object of his attention had a break was rare enough to always be taken advantage of. Now though, he had a far more urgent reason to visit.

Waiting until he had finished the first section of the paper and the tea was long gone, he stood and left, paper folded under his arm and umbrella hanging from his elbow. He didn't mind walking in the rain, but if he hadn't had an umbrella he would have been marked a tourist within moments.

John had always joked about that.

Rapping on the door, Yassen waited calmly until the door opened, Ian smiling slightly at the sight of him. "Glad you could make it Jason. Come on in," he said, letting Yassen slip by before shutting and locking the door behind the assassin. "Any trouble getting here?"

"None the normal precautions couldn't take care of," Yassen replied coolly, hanging up his coat and umbrella and dumping the newspaper. "Yourself?"

"Same. I was thinking we should move meeting places next time around, what do you say?" Ian called over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen.

Yassen smiled slightly at Ian's fishing for information, "Yes. That sounds like a good idea. I own a place on the other side of town."

"Right, it's your turn to give up a safehouse," Ian smirked. "Drink?"

"Vodka, please."

"Of all the stereotypically Russian things to do, drinking vodka has to be the worst," Ian chuckled, grabbing two glasses and two bottles before heading to the sitting room. The oaken shelves were heavily laden with books, most of which at least one of them had read. There was no television, only a radio turned off and sitting by the window.

"Certainly, it is so stereotypical, my nationality is viewed as a joke, not as a fact," Yassen smiled mildly, sitting back in an armchair, "It is much like the British liking for tea or cricket."

Ian snorted, reasonable, since he despised both.

"Shall we get the business out of the way then?" Ian asked, offering him the glass of vodka after taking a sip. Yassen turned it so he was drinking from the same portion of the rim of the glass and let the alcohol burn down his throat before replying.

"Yes I suppose. I will be in Cornwall for a few weeks. I am both a cleaner and a courier for this contract," Yassen watched with lazy eyes as Ian raised an eyebrow.

"Cornwall? I depart for that part of the country soon as well. Visiting a computer fellow up that way, discussing some irregularities in his accounts. It seems one of his assistants has been skimming. We should try to meet up while we are there," Ian drawled, drinking his own Scotch with the calm air of a true professional.

"I am sure we will run into one another. It is not that big a place," Yassen smiled, knowing that whichever way this run to Cornwall ended, it would be entertaining. A challenge, refreshing in its novelty.

That's not how these meetings started though. Years ago they had run across one another in Budapest, having the same target. Recognizing one another, they had resorted to a time honored tradition of flipping a coin as to who would actually take the shot at the man.

Naturally, neither had honored that result and it had been a thrilling five days as they foiled each other's attempts while still trying to kill their target and not get caught. Neither wanted the other caught by their respective organizations either, as they had information which was mutually interesting to the other.

When Ian had finally claimed the mark, true to the way the coin had been tossed in the first place, Yassen had followed him to a bar and they had enjoyed bad alcohol and seedy surroundings as Yassen learned how his godson had been doing.

Neither gave away critical information. Yassen still did not know that John had always worked for MI6, and Ian did not know that Alex's other godfather, Ash, was a traitor and on SCORPIA's payroll. Technically speaking, Yassen wasn't supposed to know that either. But he had not become the world's foremost assassin for his good looks.

It had been agreed then, that if they ran into each other on a mission, they would trade news of Alex and things which could endanger him. The boy never knew it, but most of the presents Ian brought back for him had been picked out and paid for by Yassen.

Three years later and they had fallen into an almost easy familiarity with each other, insofar as they were on opposite sides of a shadow war which had gone on for decades. It was a disgusting, seedy hotel in rural Taiwan that changed that dynamic to something considerably more… interesting.

Yassen had been in the jungles for two weeks hunting his mark, the entire environment reminding him of the mission where Hunter had saved his life. Ian had been dealing with some renegade industrialists stealing secrets and had recognized the handiwork of an artist in the death of one of the main perpetrators.

Driving out to investigate, he had seen the signs Yassen had left for him and tracked him to the hotel, where Yassen was boiling water to clean his scratches with. Ian had bought reasonable food and a jug of distilled water and helped clean and bandage the mild injuries while they chatted about Alex and other common interests they had found over the years.

Instead of drinking the distilled water, they drank the local firewater of the area, a potent rice based alcohol they had both found disgusting until the first three sips were choked down. After that, it could have been a multi-million dollar bottle of champagne for all they tasted it.

The next morning they had woken up sore, sticky and in bed with one another.

Yassen had disgusted the Englishman by shrugging and responding to the situation in with the appropriate French phrase, _c'est a la vie_.

Somehow that had resulted in their current state of affairs, twelve years later. A few times a year, never the same time, sometimes on missions, sometimes on recovery periods, sometimes one on one off, they met up, exchanged news, drinks, the occasional cigar and semen.

Ian was regaling him with the tale of Alex's latest football triumph, the teen an excellent player. Yassen listened to the story with a fond half-smile on his face. Should he meet the boy, he was sure the teen would try to kill him, or at least claim he would. It was nice to know the boy behind the future rage.

Later Ian listened carefully to the vague hints as to possible plans of SCORPIA and similar organizations and made a mental note to warn Jack about the next few years flu vaccines being a bad batch. In another corner of his mind he thought of places he could look for clues to this, so he could bring it before Blunt in time.

As afternoon dim London gloom faded to grey London dusk, their drinks filled and emptied, filled and emptied, stories were swapped, news was filtered through layers of hard-earned paranoia and habit and the clock struck eleven before they moved on to the next part of the program.

If the sex that night was rougher, more frenetic, more clingy afterwards, who would either of them tell? This had been going on for twelve years, their unlikely alliance lasting for fifteen. Both of them knew it would end in no other way.

The next morning, dawn crept across the awake duo, neither willing to give up the pretense of sleep and lose these brief moments of peace where they could pretend none of this – SCORPIA, MI6, John, Ash, Helen – none of this had happened. That they both would wake up and proceed about their days at drab, boring jobs in drab, boring buildings before returning to this drab, boring house for an evening and night spent together.

This lets-pretend game lasted longer than usual this time as well. Normally the harsh realist in both of them would drive them out of bed within a quarter-hour. Now they luxuriated in twenty-five minutes of faking before at last the ingrained cynicism and pessimism forced them apart, separating for showers and morning rituals before reuniting at the breakfast table where Ian cooked.

Conversation was light, both in topic and in frequency. Neither talked while eating. Eating was a business transaction. Consuming food, unusually good compared to mission meals, and gaining energy in exchange. Trading time for future strength.

Morning coffee, trading barbs and sharp observations over the delivered paper before they both stood to go. Ian watched as Yassen pulled on his sport coat, hooked his umbrella over his elbow, and folded today's paper under his other arm.

"Alex's present from St. Petersburg is in the bedroom," Yassen said, shades sliding over blue eyes. "You bought it from a street booth run by an old _babushka_."

"I'm sure he'll enjoy it," Ian said, before stepping close and grabbing Yassen's collar, mashing their lips together in a fierce, angry kiss. Neither were gentle about it, tugging, pulling, fighting for power as their tongues fought in furious, wet, slick conditions. Teeth clicked together and any romantic who had seen them would have been appalled – there was nothing loving, sweet about this kiss. This was hunger, frustration and primal desire rolled into one messy, sloppy gesture usually disguised with affection.

Finally releasing one another, neither declared victor, their eyes met over Yassen's skewed sunglasses, fierce challenge and stubbornness in both.

"See you in Cornwall," Yassen said, voice coolly lethal once more, belying the wild heat in his gaze.

"May the best man win," Ian replied, an unusually mad smile twisting his typically British features and making them memorable rather than bland and unassuming.

The assassin left, the spy shutting the door behind him. The radio flipped on, announcing the recent death of a music mogul in the north end of London. Foul play was suspected, but there were currently no suspects.

Alex did appreciate the old radio set from St. Petersburg. Cold-war era, and far more advanced than they should be.

Weeks later, when Sayle was shot from a helicopter and Yassen finally met his godson face-to-face, he smiled at the predictability of the conversation. He wondered if Alex would get too involved in this world and find himself numb but for a challenge, if he would become as apathetic and dead as he and Ian had both been until this boy had brought them together, lighting a relationship that, while not romantic or sentimental, was rough, alive, _real_ as nothing else but blood and death was.

Either way, he had finally won. It was only fair. The coin they had used in Budapest was rigged, and cheaters never prospered.

**A/N: **Wow. This has been sitting with the first page on my hard drive for months and then I opened it one day because I'd misnamed the file and suddenly it was pouring out. Hope you liked it. I also have a sentimental version of this whole pre-Stormbreaker relationship concept, but I like this one much better.

**Update:** I realized Yassen had accepted the drink from Ian twice. So I fixed it.


End file.
